After an excellent weekend, Harry was smiling as he made his way to breakfast on Monday. He'd played quidditch; made out with his boyfriend; finished all his homework and finally spoken to Sirius. His godfather had the mirror back, and Harry was satisfied he was doing okay by himself — apparently Mr and Mrs Weasley had moved back to the Burrow now the kids were at school, so it was easier for Sirius to spend more time at Seren Du.
Harry's good mood died as soon as he saw the front page of the Prophet.
Susan grabbed him on his way to the Gryffindor table, redirecting him to Hufflepuff instead, and as soon as he sat down she thrust the newspaper in his direction. Reading the headline made his heart sink. "Oh, she didn't."
"She did." Susan's glare was enough that Harry was surprised the paper didn't burst into flames.
Umbridge had made herself 'Hogwarts High Inquisitor'. Which, Harry learned as he read the article, basically meant she could create whatever school rules she wanted, and decide which teachers were deemed suitable for their positions.
"Look," Susan urged, pointing to the very end of the article. 'Wizengamot elders Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have resigned in protest'.
"Resigned?" Harry echoed quietly. "What does that even mean?" How could someone resign from a hereditary seat?
"They've given their seats to Dumbledore by proxy," Susan explained, a sour look on her face. "As a gesture of support."
Harry's stomach squirmed. While he was all for thumbing noses up at the Ministry, he didn't want Dumbledore to get more power in the process. "Great." That was two more seats they'd have to try and wrestle out of Dumbledore's control. Worse; two seats they were currently unaware of the heirs for. "Marchbanks is the Tremblay seat, right?" he checked, and Susan nodded.
Tremblay and Ogden were both lines who had not made any public record of their family trees in the last century. Neither Marchbanks nor Ogden had kids that anyone knew of, and both of them were somewhat elderly.
If anything happened to them while Dumbledore held their seats, it would be nigh on impossible to reclaim them from the headmaster. "Mr Potter." Harry straightened up, turning to see Umbridge stood in front of him, eyes cold. Her gaze darted down to the paper in his hand for a moment, and a tiny, smug smile crossed her lips. Harry hated her. "Might I ask what you're doing?"
"…Having breakfast?" Harry replied, confused. Her smile tightened.
"This is the Hufflepuff table. You are a Gryffindor."
Oh. It was like Dumbledore all over again — the entire hall was filled with students at the wrong house table, and yet Harry was clearly the problem.
"Susan and I were discussing the latest Prophet articles. The Ministry does approve of students taking an interest in current events, I hope?"
Beside him, Susan was still as a statue, watching as Umbridge's eyes narrowed.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter," she declared sweetly. "Back to your table, please."
Susan placed a discreet hand on his arm before he could argue, shooting him a warning look with the tiniest shake of her head. Harry held back a sigh. "Yes, Professor." He gave Susan her paper back, and got to his feet, heading to sit with Neville at Gryffindor. He was scowling by the time he sat down. "I hate that bitch," he muttered. Neville hummed in agreement.
"Brace yourself. She'll only get worse from here," he warned sadly. Harry's jaw clenched — if she wanted to play games, he could play.
He had half the students of Hogwarts on his side, after all.
.-.-.
Another Hell Monday began, thankfully without Umbridge's interference in History of Magic. In that class, Harry sat in the back with Susan, mostly watching her silently get angrier and angrier about the whole situation. When he wrote her a note asking if she had a plan, she just scowled at him.
It was all too tempting to use Potions as an opportunity to let out his anger, but Harry didn't want to push Snape too far; if anyone noticed he was being even slightly more lenient with Harry than usual, there would be questions. As it was, there was a spiky red 'D' on his Moonstone essay, even though Harry knew it was of at least A quality, if not E.
He grumbled about it for show, and made a few remarks that got points docked by the stern professor, but Harry wasn't worried about it. He was doing well in his other classes, he could make those points back easy. He had hoped Divination might be a bit of a reprieve from his bad mood, since Parvati and Lavender had promised to help him out with his dream diary — that hope deflated very quickly, when the trapdoor opened just as Trelawney was handing out copies of The Dream Oracle, and a familiar squat figure appeared through it. "Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney," Umbridge greeted cheerfully.
Beside Harry, Lavender's grip on her quill tightened so much the stem snapped, dripping ink onto the tablecloth. Parvati was trembling with rage.
Harry wordlessly vanished the mess, before either of the teachers could notice. "Easy," he warned the girls under his breath, watching Umbridge take up a position at the front of the class, clipboard in hand.
Professor Trelawney was not one of Harry's favourite teachers — indeed, considering she was the Seer who made the prophecy that resulted in the death of his parents, Harry would be perfectly happy to never see her again in his life — but even he had sympathy for her, being inspected by Umbridge. It was clear the woman thought that Divination was a load of rubbish; and, indeed, that Trelawney was a fraud.
If looks could kill, Umbridge would be dead twice over from the glares Parvati and Lavender were sending her way. The two had almost entirely given up on their dream interpretation, shamelessly listening in as Umbridge harassed Trelawney about giving her a prediction. "That's not how the Sight works, you hag," Lavender whispered venomously.
Hands trembling and eyes even wider than usual behind her glasses, Trelawney stuttered out her usual go-to prediction; grave danger. Which, honestly, seeing as Umbridge was a DADA teacher at Hogwarts, probably wasn't too far off the mark. Especially if she carried on the way she was going — Lavender Brown would murder the woman herself.
Harry was only half surprised when Trelawney came his way, snatching up his dream diary to begin interpreting them; naturally, each one heralded a gruesome and painful death. After every prediction, Trelawney's eyes flickered hopefully to Umbridge — as if predicting the death of the student she was known to hate the most would score the Seer some brownie points.
Harry couldn't really fault her for trying.
Sadly, it did not seem to impress the toad-like woman, and as the bell rang Umbridge stared Trelawney down, promising to be in touch with the results of her inspection soon, then daintily clambered down the ladder. Somehow, she still managed to beat all of them back to her own classroom for their next lesson. Harry studied her carefully, smirking when he saw the telltale distortion of glamour magic around her cheeks, the slight heaving of her chest — had she run all the way there, just so she could be waiting at her desk in an attempt to look imposing?
He hoped someone had seen her.
The two Gryffindor girls were still fuming from Divination, so Harry left them to it, taking his usual seat beside Neville. It wasn't a surprise when Umbridge set them to read chapter two — nor was it much of one when Hermione threw her hand in the air, and announced that she had read the entire book, and she had Opinions.
She might be an annoying little spy for Dumbledore, but her dedication to learning in this particular instance was proving deeply entertaining for Harry, even as his anger at Umbridge grew with every word out of the foul woman's mouth.
"I am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved method that does not invite students to give their opinion on matters about which they understand very little," Umbridge said nastily, looking far more pleased about shutting down a sixteen year-old girl than a grown adult should. Harry snorted quietly — after two summers with Remus Lupin, he would bet that he understood far more about jinxes and their classification than both Umbridge and Hermione combined. But he wouldn't speak up. He was trying to be good.
"Your previous teachers may have allowed you more license, but as none of them — perhaps save Professor Quirrell — would have passed a Ministry inspection—"
"Professor Lupin has a Mastery in Defence as awarded by the International Society of Defensive Magics," Harry burst out; the slight against his beloved godfather was one step too far on his already frayed temper. "He was more qualified to teach this class than you'll ever be. Professor Quirrell, on the other hand, had Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head — but sure, maybe the Ministry would approve of that."
Umbridge stared him dead in the eye, nostrils flaring with fury. Harry heard Neville let out a quiet, resigned, "Harry, no," but it was too late.
"I think another week's detention would do you some good, Mr Potter," Umbridge told him. He didn't flinch.
It was worth it.
.-.-.
"I can't believe you accused the Ministry of being on You-Know-Who's side," Neville hissed as soon as they were free of the classroom.
"She was the one who said Quirrell would pass inspection!" Harry retorted. His friend shot him a deadpan look — that wasn't an excuse, and they both knew it. "I couldn't just sit there and let her talk shit about Remus like that."
"You defending him is only going to make it worse, you know that."
Harry was saved having to reply by the sight of Hannah Abbott sidling up to Parvati ahead of them, whispering something in the girl's ear and hurrying along the corridor. As she passed, she gave Harry and Neville a pointed look and a tiny nod.
"Right now?" Neville murmured, and Hannah nodded again, then kept walking.
Harry heard Parvati say something to Lavender about needing to go to the loo before dinner, promising to catch up. He and Neville casually detoured away from the flow of students all heading down to the Great Hall — and Harry led the way into a passageway that would take them to just outside the classroom Susan liked to meet in.
"This is the worst timing," he grumbled, checking his watch — he had to be in Umbridge's office at five — but he wasn't going to skip the meeting. Umbridge had only been High Inquisitor for a day, and the whole atmosphere of the school had changed.
People were scared of her, now. And Harry wouldn't stand for that.
The Hufflepuffs had been as diligent as their house animal; all the heirs were gathered in short order, all looking disgruntled. "I can't be here long," Harry warned. "I've got another detention with Umbridge at five, and I really want to make sure I eat something." If he was going to be shedding blood all night, he didn't want to give her the satisfaction of him passing out.
"Again?" Ernie asked incredulously.
"You need to learn to keep your mouth shut, Potter," Pansy drawled. "Though, out of interest — what did you mean about Quirrell having the Dark Lord on the back of his head?"
All eyes whipped to Harry, and he waved them off. "Long story, I'll tell you another time." Of course, most of his end-of-year adventures had been a total mystery to the rest of the school. "What did you need us for, Susan?"
"This whole High Inquisitor shit changes things. I take it we've all had at least one inspected lesson?" Everyone but Sullivan nodded. "Well, it's clear she's out for blood."
"She was awful to Professor Trelawney," Parvati huffed.
"Forget Trelawney," Cassius dismissed. "She pulled out a measuring tape on Flitwick."
Harry sucked in a sharp breath — how dare she??
"Now she's got the power, she can add any rule she likes to the Hogwarts Charter, as long as Fudge signs off on it," Susan explained to the grim-faced group. "We can't let it stop us, but we have to be careful."
"You read the paper," Anthony piped up, "she's here to get Dumbledore out. That's what she's going to focus on."
"Yes, but she wants him out because she thinks he gives students too much freedom," Susan spat. "She'll curtail any freedoms she can, to try and make the headmaster angry."
"Like actually using magic in classes," Padma muttered derisively. That reminded Harry of something Sirius had said, on the mirror the night before.
"I heard from — a friend," he stuttered evasively, "outside Hogwarts, who says Fudge doesn't want us using magic in Defence class because he thinks Dumbledore is training students up as his own personal army, to take over the Ministry."
At first thought, it sounded like something straight out of the Quibbler. But Harry could see the words settle in the minds of his fellow heirs with a heavy resonance.
"How in Merlin's name did we end up with such an absolute moron in charge of our country?" Susan sighed in despair, head in her hands. Harry grimaced in sympathy.
Dumbledore running the school meant people left it oblivious and complacent; oblivious and complacent people naturally voted in oblivious and complacent leaders.
No wonder it had been so easy for the Dark to thrive.
"We're all going to fail our OWLs," Padma moaned, voice trembling. "I'll never get into the Warding Academy without at least an E in Defence!"
"Why don't you get Harry to teach you," Blaise suggested quietly. When Harry looked at him, the tall boy was smirking. "In fact, why don't we all get Harry to teach us. Not just how to pass our exams. Fudge might have trifle for brains, but… becoming an army to take down the Ministry sounds rather fun, doesn't it?"
Harry blinked incredulously. "You… you want me to what?"
"It's not a bad idea, actually," Hannah said, looking thoughtful. "I'm not training you all up to storm the Ministry!" Harry protested — how would he even go about that?
"No, that's my job," Susan replied with an aggressive grin. "But you've been saying since last year that the fight is coming, and now You-Know-Who's back… we ought to be prepared. We're all targets, as heirs. We need to know how to defend ourselves."
Harry could hardly believe what he was hearing. "I'm just a fifth year. I don't know anything." Sure, he'd been training with Snape and Remus and Sirius over the summers, but… half of that wasn't anything he could teach students.
"You've faced the Dark Lord more than anyone else who's still alive," Draco reminded him gently. His silver eyes were earnest as he locked gazes with Harry. "You know what it's like. The fact that you duelled him and lived, last year…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "You've always been the best at Defence. And I know you — you know more combat spells than any other student in this school, I guarantee it." His lips curled at the edges, a challenging smirk. "If nothing else, think how peeved Granger will be when we all get better OWL results than her."
Harry snorted despite himself — that last point was very tempting.
Susan was right, though he hated to admit it. They were all targets, and Voldemort had already proven that he didn't care whether someone was a student or not before he killed them. The idea of any of his friends being caught in a fight and unable to defend themselves, when Harry had the chance to help… it made his stomach turn to lead.
"Fine," he agreed. "But if we're doing this, it's not just us. We're not the only targets — muggleborns and half-bloods, he'll go after all of them. They need to be able to defend themselves, too."
"The more people involved, the higher the chance of Umbridge finding out," Anthony warned dubiously.
"We'll only ask those we can trust. Half the school thinks I'm a lying madman anyway, they won't be interested. But… it's a thought." He looked at his watch, then cursed. "I need to go. Think it over, get back to me. I'll brainstorm some ways to keep it all secret."
He threw a hasty wave over his shoulder to cut off any protests, sprinting from the room. That would give them something other than Umbridge to talk about, at least.
There was barely time for him to throw together a hasty roast beef sandwich when he reached the Great Hall, scoffing it down while speed-walking to Umbridge's office and trying his best not to choke. He arrived just in time, took half a minute to compose himself, and walked into the office. As before, the desk with its lace doily had the Blood Quill and some parchment lying on it, and Umbridge sat at her own desk, smiling with daggers in her eyes. "You know what to do," she told him, gesturing to the empty seat. Harry sat down, and began to write. The second he felt the pain on the back of his hand, he let the glamour drop; it wouldn't do if the fake scar didn't re-open like Umbridge anticipated. It hadn't healed entirely — Snape had warned him it would take weeks, even with the dittany — and the pain was worse than ever as the skin split open, blood welling up and dripping down his hand.
He didn't flinch, didn't falter, didn't make a sound. Satisfaction burned within him — it had to be so galling for Umbridge, to watch him be entirely unbothered by the torture she was putting him through.
She didn't know he'd spent his entire childhood being trained to do all sorts of tasks without showing pain. If he hadn't so much as sniffled when Vernon had sent him to school with three broken fingers at the age of eight, a little cut on the back of his hand wasn't going to do it.
Hours passed. At around ten, Umbridge beckoned him over, inspecting his hand. A frown crossed her lips. "Not quite as much of a permanent reminder as I'd hoped," she muttered. "No matter. By the end of this week, I'm sure we'll get there."
She dismissed him with a saccharine smile, and Harry strolled away breezily. Only when he was alone did he use the spells Snape had taught him, cleaning off the blood dried to his skin.
Really, she was losing her touch already, letting him go just an hour after curfew. The loss of homework time was more of a punishment than the pain could ever be.
.-.-.
Angelina caught up to him at breakfast the next morning, a foreboding look on her face. "George told me you got another week's detention."
"I'm sorry," he told her, grimacing. "I just—"
"Couldn't help yourself, could you?" she snapped, then faltered. "Harry, I know it's hard. I know she's got it out for you. But, please, for my sake, can you try and keep a hold of your temper? We'll never win the Quidditch cup if my star player is always in detention!"
She said this just as McGonagall happened to be walking past the Gryffindor table. The grey-haired witch froze, turning on her heel to stare down Harry. "Did I hear correctly?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "More detention, Potter?"
"Another week with Professor Umbridge," he confirmed meekly. McGonagall's lips thinned.
"After the conversation we had last week?"
"She said unsavoury things about Professor Lupin," Harry argued, jutting his chin defiantly. Her expression softened for a moment, but it didn't last long.
"I think we both know that Professor Lupin would not want you to go to the trouble of arguing on his behalf," McGonagall said shortly. "Especially against someone whose opinion he values so little."
That addition, a quieter remark than the beginning of her sentence, made Harry grin. "Of course, Professor. Won't happen again." She was right, naturally; Remus wouldn't want Harry to waste his breath on Umbridge. She was just so infuriating.
"See that it doesn't," was his housemistress' terse reply, before she carried on up to the head table.
Angelina looked taken-aback by the conversation — perhaps at McGonagall's blatant, if quiet, disregard for her fellow teacher. "Well," she stuttered, frowning at Harry once more. "You're missing Thursday practice, but there'll be another one on Saturday. You're lucky I know how good you are, Potter."
"I really am sorry."
Angelina waved off his excuses, giving him one last stink-eye before heading back to sit with the twins.
After his little exchange with McGonagall at breakfast, Harry was quietly delighted when he walked in to Transfiguration later that morning to see Umbridge settled in the corner of the classroom, while McGonagall greeted her students as if entirely unaware of the intrusion.
What followed was perhaps the most entertaining Transfiguration lesson of Harry's life. McGonagall was absolutely masterful in her curt, bone-dry take downs of Umbridge's every interruption; Harry was impressed by her even temper, and even more impressed by the way she made Umbridge look like she'd been slapped in the face on multiple occasions. She made a point of listing all her qualifications and accolades — of which there were many — and briefly caught Harry's eye as she did so, gaze shining with well-hidden amusement.
She had heard the specifics of his criticisms of Umbridge, then.
It was beautiful to watch; there was no teacher in the school more qualified, competent or accomplished than Professor McGonagall, and even Umbridge knew it. Even more, McGonagall had been both Transfiguration teacher and Head of Gryffindor for such a long time, there would be absolute outrage from the general public if she were to be ousted by the Ministry. A lot of ex-Gryffindors went into Ministry jobs, after all. "Well," Umbridge said somewhat weakly, after a well-placed stab at her own teaching prowess. "You've certainly been at this for quite a while. One might even say, too long." She giggled girlishly. "We wouldn't want standards to drop with complacency, after all." A devious light entered Umbridge's eyes. "Perhaps a demonstration from one of your students? Just to make sure you aren't losing your touch."
McGonagall's nostrils flared. "If you had been paying attention, you would have noticed the students have all been practicing their spellwork for the entirety of our conversation, Dolores," she bit out. That just made Umbridge smile wider.
"Then they won't mind doing it for me one more time." She turned to face the class, eyes sliding right past Hermione as the girl confidently raised her hand. Harry knew what was coming long before she said it. "Mr Potter, perhaps?"
McGonagall gave him a look, and Harry let his lips flicker in the barest of smiles. A year or two ago, this might have spelled disaster, but not now — now, Harry was quickly rising to the top of his class in most subjects. Transfiguration was no exception.
"May I have a new mouse, please, Professor?" he requested, the epitome of a model student.
"Lost your first one, Mr Potter?" Umbridge remarked snidely, but was ignored; McGonagall fished a brand new mouse out of the box on her desk, setting it down in front of Harry. There was a warning in her eyes not to let her down, but Harry wasn't phased.
He raised his wand, spoke the incantation clearly, and flicked his wrist.
Instantly, the mouse vanished entirely.
"Very good, Potter. Five points to Gryffindor," McGonagall awarded with a decisive nod. She turned back to Umbridge, whose face was once again turning that Vernon-Dursley-colour. "Does that satisfy your curiosity, Dolores?"
Umbridge let out a quiet huff, and went back to scrawling notes on her clipboard, right up until the bell rang.
Harry wasn't sure what felt better — the absolute outrage Umbridge showed at Harry being a competent wizard, or the indignant expression Hermione wore; on her desk, beside the still-wriggling tail of Ron's half-vanished mouse, was one single mouse paw.
.-.-.
Friday night, Umbridge kept Harry in detention until half past eleven; she seemed determined to do as much damage as possible before she had to let him go once more.
"This should do for now," she declared in satisfaction, once she'd inspected his hand. "I do hope you have finally learned your lesson, Mr Potter."
Harry just nodded, bidding her goodnight, and head down to the dungeons.
To his combined surprise and trepidation, Snape was not alone in his quarters.
"I'm going to kill her," Remus growled, eyes glowing bright with the wolf as he cradled Harry's hand between his own. "How dare she harm my cub like this."
"Moony, I'm fine," Harry assured soothingly. "This is nothing, really." It was going to scar, he could tell, even with Snape's attention. But it could just join the other scars on his body.
He wondered what Umbridge might think if he showed her all the marks his uncle had left on him, if he told her she had something in common with muggles — that the muggle methods were more effective, really, so she had best up her game.
"It's not nothing, this is illegal!" Remus argued. Snape set a hand on his shoulder, and the man slumped wearily. "I don't want you getting any more detentions trying to defend me, Harry. I love that you're willing to fight for me like that, but really, she isn't worth it."
"It wasn't just for defending you," Harry said, trying not to squirm as Snape rubbed dittany onto the bleeding wound. "It was mostly for pointing out that Quirrell was possessed by Voldemort."
"Also not a worthy cause," Snape pointed out flatly. "For Salazar's sake, Potter — do us all a favour and learn to keep your mouth shut."
"If I'm in detention, she doesn't have the time for anyone else," he retorted stubbornly. As far as he knew, Umbridge only had one Blood Quill.
"You are not responsible for the entire damned school!" Snape hissed. "How long will it take for us to knock out that senseless drivel Albus has been filling your head with?"
"Please, cub," Remus tried earnestly. "I worry about you enough as it is, with Dumbledore so close to you. Don't give me another thing to go grey over." The attempt at a joke was weak, but it made guilt squirm in Harry's stomach. "I just… I hate her, so much. She's putting so many people in danger with her ridiculous Ministry-approved curriculum."
"But that isn't something you're going to fix by getting detention with her every night," came Remus' response. When Snape pulled back from Harry's mostly-healed hand, the werewolf swooped in for a hug. "Let her do what she came here to do — make life difficult for Dumbledore. We all know it's temporary. As soon as the Dark Lord goes public again, Fudge and Umbridge will lose all credibility, and she'll be out on her arse."
Harry pursed his lips. "That's relying an awful lot on Voldemort to make a move." He eyed the adults suspiciously, gaze dropping to Snape's forearm. "What do you know that I don't?"
"Very little, actually," Remus assured. "Just that Voldemort is clearly going after the prophecy. You saw what happened to Podmore in the paper, I assume?"
"Imperius?" he presumed, and Remus nodded.
"We think so. They're certainly trying quite hard to get into the Department of Mysteries — luckily, the Unspeakables are one of the few genuinely competent departments of the lot."
"I wish my connection with him was more useful," Harry grumbled. "I'm trying to block off my end the best I can, but with the dreams… I don't know if he's not holding meetings or just purposefully keeping me out of them, but all I'm getting from him is this bloody endless corridor with a locked door."
Snape's spine stiffened. "May I take a look?"
Harry nodded, and dark eyes met his. He forced himself to relax as he felt the intrusion, pushing his dreams to the forefront of his thoughts. Snape didn't linger, and when Harry blinked away, the man was scowling. "That's the Department of Mysteries," he confirmed. "He's trying to get you curious."
"Does he think I'd have any better luck at breaking in than he would?" Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. At least now he knew why his dreams were so repetitive. Suddenly, his blood went cold. "If he's giving me these dreams on purpose, do you think he knows? That I'm a horcrux?" Worse; did he know that Harry was aware that he was a horcrux?
Snape's face was grave, but he shook his head. "I doubt it. There is little to no information on a human vessel for a horcrux — furthermore, given what happened the night— the night you got that scar, I doubt him splitting his soul was intentional. Likely the magical backlash was enough to splinter off a piece, since it was already so fragile from the previous horcrux rituals. He likely just thinks it is some magical residue from the failed killing curse." A grim smile crossed his thin lips. "I may not be privy to as many of his plans as Lucius Malfoy, but I am the one the Dark Lord comes to for difficult and obscure magical research. If he were looking into the possibility, I would know."
Harry tried to be soothed by the confidence in the man's tone, but he still felt cold.
At least his hand didn't hurt so much anymore.